Dean Koontz - Lost Souls

Breathless Relentless Your Heart Belongs to Me The Darkest Evening of the Year The Good Guy The Husband Velocity Life Expectancy The Taking The Face By the Light of the Moon One Door Away From Heaven From the Corner of His Eye False Memory Seize the Night Fear Nothing Mr. Murder Dragon Tears Hideaway Cold Fire The Bad Place Midnight Lightning Watchers Strangers Twilight Eyes Darkfall Phantoms Whispers The Mask The Vision The Face of Fear Night Chills Shattered The Voice of the Night The Servants of Twilight The House of Thunder The Key to Midnight The Eyes of Darkness Shadowfires Winter Moon The Door to December Dark Rivers of the Heart Icebound Strange Highways Intensity Sole Survivor Ticktock The Funhouse Demon Seed

ODD THOMAS
Odd Thomas Forever Odd Brother Odd Odd Hours

FRANKENSTEIN
Prodigal Son City of Night Dead and Alive Lost Souls

To Tracy Devine and Fletcher Buckley,
who keep each other delightfully sane in a
world gone mad. May your lives be full of good books,
good music, good friends, andin light of your reckless
choice of vacation spotsonly good bears.

Men do not differ much about what
things they will call evils;
they differ enormously about what evils
they will call excusable.

G. K. CHESTERTON

The October wind came down from the stars. With the hiss of an artists airbrush, it seemed to blow the pale moonlight like a mist of paint across the slate roofs of the church and abbey, across the higher windows, and down the limestone walls. Where patches of lawn were bleached by recent cold, the dead grass resembled ice in the lunar chill.

At two oclock in the morning, Deucalion walked the perimeter of the seven-acre property, following the edge of the encircling forest. He needed no lamplight to guide him; and he would have needed none even deep in the blackness of the mountain woods.

From time to time, he heard sounds of unknown origin issuing from among the towering pines, but they inspired no anxiety. He carried no weapon because he feared nothing in the forest, nothing in the night, nothing on Earth.

Although he was unusually tall, muscled, and powerful, his physical strength was not the source of his confidence and fortitude.

He went downhill, past St. Bartholomews School, where orphans with physical and developmental disabilities flew in their sleep, while Benedictine nuns watched over them. According to Sister Angela, the mother superior, the most commonly reported dream of her young charges was of flying under their own power, high above the school, the abbey, the church, the forest.

Most of the windows were dark, although lights glowed in Sister Angelas office on the ground floor. Deucalion considered consulting her, but she didnt know the full truth of him, which she would need to know in order to understand his problem.

Centuries old but young in spirit, born not of man and woman, but instead constructed from the bodies of dead felons and animated by strange lightning, Deucalion was most at home in monasteries. As the firstand, he believed, the sole survivingcreation of Victor Frankenstein, he belonged nowhere in this world, yet he did not feel like an outsider at St. Bartholomews Abbey. Previously, he had been comfortable as a visitor in French, Italian, Spanish, Peruvian, and Tibetan monasteries.

Hed left his quarters in the guest wing because he was plagued by a suspicion that seemed irrational but that he couldnt shake. He hoped that a walk in the cool mountain air would clear his troubled mind.

By the time Deucalion circled the property and arrived at the entrance to the abbey church, he understood that his suspicion arose not from deductive reasoning but instead from intuition. He was wise enough and sufficiently experienced to know that intuition was the highest form of knowledge and should never be ignored.

Without passing through the door, he stepped out of the night and into the narthex of the church.

At the entrance to the nave, he dared to dip two fingers in the font, make the sign of the cross, and invoke the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. His existence was a blasphemy, a challenge to sacred order, because his makera mere mortalhad been in rebellion against the divine and against all natural law. Yet Deucalion had reason to hope that he was not just a thing of meat and bone, that his ultimate fate might not be oblivion.

Without walking the length of the center aisle, he went from the threshold of the nave to the distant sanctuary railing.

The church lay mostly in shadows, brightened only by a sanctuary light focused on the crucifix towering over the altar and by votive candles flickering in crimson-glass cups.

As Deucalion appeared at the railing, he realized that another shared the church with him. Glimpsing movement from the corner of his eye, he turned to see a monk rising from the first pew.

At five feet seven and two hundred pounds, Brother Salvatore was less fat than solid, as an automobile compacted into a cube by a hydraulic press was solid. He looked as if bullets would ricochet off him.

The hard angles and blunt edges of Salvatores face might have given him a threatening aspect in his youth, when he lived outside the law. But sixteen years in the monastery, years of remorse and contrition, softened his once-cold gray gaze with kindness and reshaped his smile from brutish to beatific.

At the abbey, he was Deucalions closest friend.

His large hands, holding a rosary, seemed to be all knuckles, which is what his associates had called him in his former life. Here at St. Bartholomews, he was affectionately known as Brother Knuckles.

Who was it they said murdered sleep? Knuckles asked.

Macbeth.

I figured youd know.

Perhaps because he was born from the dead, Deucalion lacked the daily need for sleep that was a trait of those born from the living. On the rare nights when he slept, he always dreamed.

Brother Knuckles knew the truth of Deucalion: his origin in a laboratory, his animation by lightning, his early crimes, and his quest for redemption. The monk knew, as well, that during Deucalions sleepless nights, he usually occupied himself with books. In his two centuries, he had read and reread more volumes than were contained in all but the largest of the worlds libraries.

With me it aint Macbeth. Its memory, said the monk. Memory is pure caffeine.

Youve received absolution for your past.

That dont mean the past didnt happen.

Memories arent rags that come clean with enough wringing.

Guess Ill spend the rest of my life wringing them anyway. What brings you here?

Raising one hand to trace the contours of the ruined half of his once handsome face, Deucalion murmured, He is risen.

Looking at the crucifix, the monk said, That aint exactly news, my friend.

I refer to my maker, not yours.

Victor Frankenstein?